Page 6 of Just for Tonight

“You look freaked. Tell me.”

“Well, first I quit. That was earlier in the evening.”

“Probably not without provocation.”

“I don’t think so.”

He’s thinking it through, deciding how much to say. I offer a distraction, and frown at a slip of paper. “Who keeps a receipt from a barber? It’s four years old.”

Mike shrugs. “Then I took issue with him keeping my daughter from me and threatening her.” He cracks the seal on the bottle, gets out a couple of glasses and pours.

It takes me a minute to process what he’s just said. Daughter? “No.” It’s a token protest because Mike doesn’t lie.

“Yes,” he says heavily.

Mike has had two women in his life. Sylvia Kincaid was the first and probably the great love of his life. She vanished and broke his heart. There was also Lauren at university but she broke off their engagement and I couldn’t blame her. It has always been clear that no one could compete with Sylvia.

Daughter. Is that why Sylvia vanished after high school?

And that daughter was the cause of the last great fight Mike had with our father. Rightly so, in my view, if our father was threatening the girl.

He probably wanted to erase her from existence, and Mike would never tolerate that. I’ll guess he didn’t know about his own kid, and am pretty sure I could put the credit for that at our dear father’s feet.

I come honestly by my asshole tendencies.

“Then I have taught you something,” I say heartily. “Definitely worthy of celebration. Make mine a double. No ice.”

Mike hesitates for a heartbeat, so I shake that receipt at him.

“And who pays fifteen bucks for a haircut?”

“Anyone who goes to Barney downtown.”

“You’re kidding me. Fifteen bucks?”

“If it was four years ago, he probably left a two-dollar tip to round it up.”

Mike’s right. “He did. He wrote it in.” Thirteen dollars for a haircut. I’ve returned to 1965.

Mike sips his drink. “How much do you pay for a haircut?”

“Eighty bucks, one-fifty if I need highlights.”

Mike grins. “Is that with the little foil packets?”

“So, what if it is?” I will not apologize for wanting to look my best. I wave the receipt. “And what was this for? Why did he save it? Did he think he was going to get a tax credit for making a charitable donation?”

Mike gets a big trash can and I toss the crumpled receipt from Barney’s Barber Shop.

We clink glasses and I toast the framed photograph of Patrick that hangs over the fireplace. What is that about? It reminds me of the pictures of the Queen that hung in every classroom and public meeting place. I guess they’re of Charles now. Did our father think he was King of Empire? “Godspeed, you old bugger,” I say and Mike chokes on his drink.

To my relief, he echoes the toast, though he looks a bit forlorn afterward.

“What happens next?” he asks.

“This,” I say, heading back to the desk and lifting everything out of one drawer. I take it to the table and indulge in another sip before I start to sort. That trash can comes in handy but quick.

“Can I help?”